The Friend in the Psychologist
by Flutterbee
Summary: “I told her the appointment was canceled,” he admitted, jaw tight. He swallowed and slowly lowered himself to the couch cushions. “I… I just needed to talk to you about something." Booth's private session with Sweets. Sometime after "Mayhem on a Cross."
1. Late Again

Private Session with Sweets

**Takes place sometime after "Mayhem on a Cross." **

Dr. Lance Sweets sat at his desk, the eraser end of a pencil stuck in his teeth. He wiggled the pencil up and down with his jaw, an irritated movement. He glanced down at his wrist.

Late. Again. Why were they always late?

He knew Agent Booth did it just to annoy him; secretly, Sweets recognized he feared and mistrusted psychology. What he couldn't work out was why Dr. Brennan played along with Booth's game. She was so much more sensible. Couldn't she see that their being late only reduced the potential for improvement they could make?

Then again, she didn't put much stock is psychology anyway.

Sweets sighed, the pencil dropping from his teeth to the floor. Twenty five after. Maybe he should just work on some other files for a while. He _did _have to write out the report for that last criminal profile...

He rose from his armchair, stretching his arms to the ceiling and yawning as he stood. _Not the best way to end a long day_.

He _did _hate to clutter his mind with other cases just before a session, but if Brennan and Booth _insisted _on sabotaging his efforts to help their partnership…

The doorknob rattled.

Sweets' heart leapt, and he hurriedly sat back down; arranging his features in a calm expression. _Finally! _His favorite and most frustrating subjects were here!

Booth walked briskly through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Okay, so his favorite and most frustrating subjects were _half _here.

"Agent Booth!" Sweets greeted him politely. "I'm glad you could make it. Though…" he gestured at the clock, tugging agitatedly on his ear with his left hand. "…you are a little late."

Booth still stood at the door. Sweets noted his posture; shoulders slightly hunched, and his expression; dark circled eyes, lips tight, eyebrows crumpled. Obviously upset.

_Something to do with Dr. Brennan, perhaps?_

Not wanting to scare him off by jumping straight into "the personal stuff," as Booth would call it, Sweets evaded. "Did Dr. Brennan miss the memo?" he said with a small smirk.

Booth returned the smirk, though with less enthusiasm than was usual. He stepped away from the door, toward the couch he and Brennan usually shared. "No…" Booth paused and turned to Sweets before he sat, looking down on him from his considerable height.

Sweets was speed analyzing. _His posture suggests he feels threatened. He considers whatever he's about to say as representation of vulnerability and prefers to face it while standing, where he's more… intimidating. _

"I told her the appointment was canceled," he admitted, jaw tight. He swallowed and slowly lowered himself to the couch cushions. "I… I just needed to talk about something."


	2. Nightmares

_I'd just like you all to know… I have NO idea how to write. So… PLEASE don't rip me apart for sucking at it, y'know? I do this for fun. If it were my job, I'd allow the jibes and teardowns. But it isn't, so DEAL, okay? ._

* * *

Booth sat guardedly on the edge of the couch, shifting uneasily on its leather cushions. He waited for Sweets' response with his arms folded tightly across his chest, leaning forward slightly.

Sweets deliberated internally. _Who am I supposed to be right now? Friend or professional? _It would probably depend on what it was Booth wanted to talk about. _How best to approach? He obviously wants me to confer my compliance before relaying his story so if I-_

"…uhm…that's fine."

The words were out before he had finished his internal monologue. _Damn. _Sweets' eyes widened in dread and he smacked himself internally for the lame reply. _Nice. Way to come off as a total JERK, Lance. _

But Booth just nodded. Sweets nearly sighed in relief- his careless response hadn't made him seem insensible to their situation. He observed as Booth began to prepare himself mentally, his posture becoming even more defensive. _He's compensating physically for the psychosomatic exposure, _thought the young psychologist.

Booth looked up at Sweets. His eyes narrowed as they saw the intensely interested look on the young psychologist's face. "Cut it out, Sweets. I just want to talk. Stop the dissecting."

Sweets didn't want to risk saying that, in psychology, those two things were practically the same thing. He shrugged instead, feigning an apologetic look at being "caught in the act." "Right. Sorry. No psychologist stuff."

At least he knew which Sweets he was supposed to be now. _Friends, not professionals._

Booth sighed his acceptance, picking at a spot on the leather couch. "I can't sleep," he admitted finally. "Not since I… well, for about two weeks."

Sweets wasn't too surprised at this revelation- Booth was clearly sleep-deprived: dark purple circles lined his bloodshot eyes, his hair, which was normally perfectly coiffed, stuck out in several directions, and even his suit seemed crinkled and worn. His disheveled appearance looked distinctly un-Booth-like. But what really gave it away, as odd as Sweets knew it sounded, was the stubble. Booth ALWAYS found time to shave, even when he'd been in the hospital after nearly getting blown to pieces at Brennan's apartment.

Obviously, something was wrong.

Sweets answered, making sure to look into Booth's tired eyes. _To apply a private connection_. "Do you have any idea what the onset of your insomnia might be?" _Oh, wrong, all wrong!_ It _was _what he had wanted to ask, but Sweets realized how impersonal his question sounded. _Come on, Lance! Friends, not professionals, _he chided himself.

Apparently Booth was in a forgiving mood because he continued as if he hadn't noticed Sweets' cold professionalism. He leaned back on the couch. "It started when…." He scratched his head and let out a sigh, shoulder popping as it connected with the couch's back. "After that dinner? With you and Bones? It was, uh, after the death metal guy?"

Sweets nodded with a small smile. "Yeah, I remember. Dr. Wyatt made us that… what was it? Some kind of stew? The name was French, I think."

Booth's jaw twitched. "Well, I… I went to bed that night and I…" he closed his eyes and shook his head wearily. "It hasn't happened in such a long time, I thought that maybe they were… I had this dream. Nightmare." He opened his red eyes and looked up into Sweet's face, clearly uncomfortable. He leaned forward again and made a weak attempt at a grin. "Seems kinda weird, me telling you about my 'bad dreams,'" he emphasized with finger quotes, "…when you probably still have a teddy to keep your dreams away."

Sweets smirked, but chose to ignore the shot about his age, interpreting it as Booth's attempt to project his own discomfort with the situation onto someone else. "Can I ask…" he started carefully. "You didn't just have the dream once?"

Booth nodded curtly, eyes tight.

"How many times would you say you've had it?" Booth didn't answer straight away, sending Sweets into probe-mode. _He fears being perceived as weak, and fears that his inability to stifle his subconscious is a failure of strength. _

"It's…every time I sleep," Booth admitted wearily, a look of shame darkening his features. "Even if it's just a nap." He pressed his thumb and finger against his eyes, kneading them slightly.

"Do you want to tell me what the dream is about?" Sweets asked cautiously, setting his clipboard on the floor to assure Booth that he wasn't going to take notes and analyze. On paper, anyway.

Booth's face fell and his expression melted into a look of disgust. He clenched his fists, drawing them to his ears. "_God…_" Sweets heard him mutter.

"Could you describe it at all?" Sweets persisted.

Booth dropped his fists quickly. "God, this is so _pathetic_!" he burst angrily, rising to his feet. "I am NOT some _kid_ who's too afraid to go to sleep because of the monsters under his bed!" Tired but frustrated, he began pacing agitatedly in front of the office's window.

Sweets was somewhat startled by the outburst but took it in stride. He recognized the tone in Booth's voice as frustration rather than anger, frustration at his own perceived weakness. _And I'm sure the not sleeping for two weeks thing isn't helping his temper, either. _He switched his interrogation tactic, backing off a little.

"Agent Booth, I'm afraid I don't understand. You said our- dinner? That's what brought these dreams on?"

"No, not the dinner." Booth said through clenched teeth, arms now pressed tightly around his chest. Continuing his troubled pacing, he said, "I think it's… no, I'm _sure_ it's the stuff we talked about **before **dinner."

Sweets eyes widened briefly in comprehension. He nodded, his mind flashing back to that night in his office. He recalled the disturbing story Dr. Brennan had shared about her foster parents. He remembered how his own memories of childhood abuse had surfaced. Booth, he supposed, must have experienced something similar.

And knowing Booth, Sweets thought, he's probably done everything he could since that day to suppress the memories, thus causing a lack of sleep through emotional stress. _What can these memories be that he would work so hard to bury them; hide them from himself? _

His voice soft and sympathetic, Sweets said, "Agent Booth, I won't pressure you, but if there's anything you need to say..." he gestured at himself. "There's no shame in expressing emotion." What he couldn't bring himself to say was "_I just need you to trust me."_

Still standing, Booth looked down at Sweets in irritation. "Sweets, I just want to sleep." Suddenly he really needed to sit down. "No 'sharing,' okay?" He slumped back onto the couch, exhaustion clouding his eyes.

Sweets threw caution to the wind. "But Agent Booth… Seeley," Booth looked up, startled at the use of his first name. "Can't you see that the two might be related? Your subconscious is expressing itself while you sleep because you suppress it so strongly during the day." A tone of concern had seeped its way into Sweets' voice.

Booth took no notice of the psychologists' worry, instead saying, "Okay, first of all, I'm not suppressing anything. I'm _fine_; I just can't _sleep _is all. And _don't _say my name like that- like we're "best buds" or something." He leaned his head back on the couch again, but not before Sweets caught a quick look in his eyes.

Sweets wondered if Booth knew how strongly his eyes communicated what he was feeling. He could deny his emotions all he liked verbally, but those brown eyes weren't capable of deceiving. Right now they told Sweets that, no, he didn't mean that he and Sweets weren't friends, and yes, he was aware that he was repressing… something.

"Fine then. Booth," he sighed, leaning back in his chairs. _He __**knows**__ I know he's lying. What's the point in keeping appearances? Why go through all the trouble?_

He already sort of knew, of course. He knew Booth always showed up to work in the crispest of suits; his hair gelled neatly in place. Booth wasn't vain about his appearance, but he had a heightened sensitivity about to the way people saw him. In many ways, Sweets could relate. He himself felt the pressure to hide himself, his pain, from others; even if, as a psychologist, he knew the damage stifling emotion could cause.

Like severe sleep deprivation.

Suddenly, Sweets knew exactly what he needed to do.

"It's… tough, isn't it?" he began. Booth looked up cautiously, a hint of question in his expression. Sweets' fingers meshed tightly together. "There's so much you just want to forget. But you know somewhere that… it's not going away. The past." He sat up again, swallowing and summoning his strength. He watched Booth's eyes before they closed and their owner turned his head toward the window, jaw clenched. _Regret. Pain._

Sweets went on. "You know, I think about it all and…" he blinked, surprised at the tears forming so readily in his eyes. "…things could have turned out so much worse, right? I mean, with my parents… I think of those kids that don't get away from… that never…" He blinked again and inhaled deeply. Booth was still turned away.

"Kids that die before anyone can get them out." Booth stiffened.

"I had my parents," Sweets continued. "My _real_ parents, I mean; the ones who took me away from that nightmare when I was six. When Brennan talked about her foster parents and all those terrible things they did to her… " he shook his head.

Sweets was so engaged in his thoughts he was forgetting to analyze Booth's reactions. He didn't even notice that he had forgotten to call Bones "Dr." Brennan.

"I'm lucky," he concluded.

After several long moments, Booth finally turned back. He looked Sweets head on with his oh-so-readable eyes. _Sympathy. Or maybe… empathy?_ _And gratitude. _Sweets smiled slightly, the motion causing a single tear to spill from his watering eyes. _Friends, not professionals._

"I know why you're telling me this, Sweets." Booth watched as his friend hurriedly wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve. "And… I really appreciate it," he finished. He seemed to take a deep breath before saying:

"You asked if I could describe this dream?"


	3. Persistence of Memory

Note: I haven't the foggiest when it comes to Booth's parents' names. Thus the random names of Tom and Katherine. Also, some swears ahead. But I figure PG-13 movies can say the f-word twice before they have to up the rating, so the same rules kind of apply here, right?

And I just realized that I haven't put a disclaimer in. Here's to hoping it's not too late!

DISCLAIMER: Booth and Sweets and all related characters and… erm, episodes… belong to NOT ME. Thank you.

* * *

It always began with a small family on a picnic.

Four figures sat at the edge of a pond on their checkered blanket, the sun shining a bright yellow on the water's surface. A well-muscled man with dark hair and coffee colored eyes held his beautiful wife close at his side, the two of them laughing at their youngest son's attempts to fit a whole sandwich into his tiny mouth. Separate from this image of joy, the couple's eldest son occupied the corner of the blanket farthest from the smiling man. The boy's eyes were filled with suspicion and mistrust.

The scene melted away and suddenly the large man from the picnic blanket stood before a kitchen entryway, the door hanging from its hinges as though it had been kicked in. From his position in a nondescript suburban living room, the same young boy could hear indistinct yelling and screaming; a man and a woman.

His mom and dad.

Daddy had been drinking again.

"DON'T you fucking run from me! I want to know why the FUCK your friend Gina is asking me all those damn questions!" A brown bottle swung from Thomas Booth's hand, a yellow-brown liquid sloshing from its mouth as he made angry gestures with his arms.

Katherine was in tears, slowly backing towards the rear door. "Tom, get the hell away from me!" His mom tried to sound brave, but even from a room away seven year old Seeley could hear her voice tremble. "Y-you stop this right now, or I swear to God, I'm calling the police!" Her voice was much higher than was normal.

Seeley couldn't breathe right- he made tiny gasping noises and couldn't get air into his lungs. He was scared. He knew how this would end if he didn't stop it right now.

Daddy would hit mommy again and again until she was bleeding all over.

Seeley pressed himself against the wall behind the couch where he was hiding, trying to disappear into the plaster. His three years old brother Jared wailed in the background, awakened from his nap by all the screaming.

How could he help? He didn't want to make daddy mad at him, but mommy was so scared…

Making a decision, Seeley stood, his knees shaky and his lips quivering. He couldn't let his dad hurt her. He couldn't.

He was climbing clumsily over the couch's faded blue back when he heard the first blow land; a hard _smack!_ A loud crash resounded through the house as something heavy dropped to the floor. Mommy screamed.

"MOM!" Seeley screeched without thinking. He tumbled off the couch onto the floor. Quickly scrambling to his feet, he sprinted the short distance to the battered doorway where he could see the entire kitchen.

His felt his racing heart stop at the sight in front of him.

His mom, her left eye beginning to swell, was gasping in pain and holding the back of her head as blood dripped in a steady stream through her fingers. The wooden table behind her was a foot farther to the left than normal.

And daddy was looking right at him, murder in his eyes.

Taking a step towards his son, he growled, "You sassing me, Seeley? You gonna talk back at me like your mom?" Tom's voice was gruff and menacing, his speech only faintly slurred.

Seeley struggled to breathe again, his lungs made of cement. Frozen in fear, he was completely unable to move as his father drew closer.

The world dissolved again, reforming this time in an immaculately clean bathroom. The walls, counter, shower curtains, light fixtures… everything was white. Even the sunlight that streamed through the windows seemed white; pure as new fallen snow.

_Like heaven. _Seeley thought.

Then the harsh pounding at the door resumed. "Damn it, Seeley! Open the goddamn door NOW!"

He couldn't hide here for much longer, he knew. Dad would just break down the door again. Or he'd go after Mom or Jared. Sighing in resignation, the boy made up his mind: "_Better me than them."_

So eight year old Seeley wiped the tears from his eyes, took a deep, shaky breath, and opened the door.

His father immediately grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "I tell you to open that door, you DO as I say, GOT it?" He punctuated his words with a harsh slap across both of Seeley's cheeks.

A few fresh tears fell down the boy's face. "Yessir."

Tom wasn't pleased. "Don't be wise with me, boy," he growled dangerously, pulling Seeley's shirt higher. Seeley couldn't help the small cry of fear that escaped his lips as his feet left the ground.

"Quit your whining!" Tom snarled, striking his son again. His breath reeked of alcohol. "Worthless thing. Shut UP!"

Seeley closed his mouth obediently.

From the corner of his eye, Seeley saw something move. Turning his head very slightly so as not to provoke his father, he watched his mother, bruised and shivering, pull four year old Jared into her bedroom. Jared sniffed softly, confused at all the uproar around him. Tears ran down his mother's face as she drew the door shut with a bloodied right arm.

Seeley's heart froze.

He didn't hear what his father said next. He just felt the blows landing on his small body and wondered at how they didn't hurt nearly as much as the hole in his chest.

* * *

There was a long pause when Booth finished relating his nightmare.

"Booth…" Sweets finally sighed. He blinked the water from his eyes, conscious of the fact that tears would make Booth even more uncomfortable. "These dreams… they're…are they…?"

"Memories," Booth confirmed softly. He looked at the floor. "But… they feel so _real._" He ran a hand over his eyes, embarrassed."And I know that's stupid to say. But it's like… like they're really happening again. Things I just want out of my head."

Sweets nodded sadly, completely understanding his sentiments. Rubbing the skin beneath his eyes he asked, "And these dreams; these memories. Why do you think they're resurfacing? What's changed?"

"It's just…" Booth began. "That night. What Bones said. What _I _said. I brought all this _mess _back to the surface." He shook his head and folded his arms over his chest again. _Defensive. Again. _Sweets found himself wondering whether those defenses ever shut down.

Booth sighed and then looked back up at Sweets, giving a small, grim smile. "If you think about it, we've all got pretty shitty pasts."

_Joking. Another attempt to drive back anxiety over the situation._

The two sat in silence, each waiting for the other to speak.

After a few minutes, Sweets seized the opportunity. Looking frankly into Booth's eyes, he summoned the courage to ask his question:

"Was it him?"

Booth looked up, confused.

Sweets exhaled slowly. He knew the best way to ask a tough, personal question was to say it outright, so he tried again. "Your father…all the drunken rages; the abuse, the fear… was it him that made you want to kill yourself when you were a child?"

Booth's eyes widened briefly at the psychologist's daring. Sweets glimpsed a fleeting spark of anger in his expression before he turned his head away, hiding his face from the psychologist's prying eyes. A second long silence ensued when he didn't answer.

Just as Sweets was beginning to think he'd overstepped his boundaries, Booth responded in a soft but firm tone, breaking through the quiet. "No. Not my dad."

Sweets blinked, not expecting that answer. "But your dreams, you said-"

"It wasn't my dad," Booth interrupted, holding his hand up to Sweets. Sweets raised his eyebrows inquiringly. _What could be worse for a child than an abusive parent? _he asked himself, memories from his own violent past shadowing his thoughts.

Booth revised: "My dad- he's not what scared me the most_."_

"Then… what **did **scare you?" Sweets inquired gently.

Booth licked his lips, eyebrows knitted. "What I was really scared of… what _terrified _me was that I couldn't DO anything." His eyes darted to Sweets' face before returning to look at his hands in his lap. "I couldn't help them. I couldn't save my mom from him, I couldn't protect my brother from him, hell, I couldn't even hide _myself_ from him. No matter how hard I tried, I…" he swallowed and met Sweets' eyes, his own chocolate ones gleaming with tears Sweets knew he wouldn't allow to fall in front of him. "…I couldn't make them stop hurting."

Booth looked back at the ground uncomfortably, his expression pained. Sweets could hear the _"in more than physical ways," _he left off at the end of the sentence.

_He isn't used to such candid disclosure. I wonder if he's__** ever**__ shared this much with anyone._ Saddened (yet somewhat pleased) by the thought, he reached out to place a hand on Booth's hunched shoulder.

But apparently he had miscalculated.

Booth jerked away angrily, like Sweets' hand burned him. "Don't," he growled. Glaring at the now baffled psychologist, he stood and began pacing for a second time.

Sweets felt like his eyebrows were fixed in their raised position, thoroughly bewildered at the sudden change in atmosphere. "Don't what?" he asked.

"I don't want your sympathy, Sweets."

_Sympathy?_

Something clicked. _Is he… does he feel guilty? But… about what?_

"Booth, your family's suffering was _not _your fault..."

Booth was shaking his head fervidly before Sweets had finished his sentence. "Don't," he said again. "Don't give me all the bullshit."

"Bull…? Booth, you can't possibly think…"

"I know, Sweets! Not my fault." Booth's voice was growing louder. "But what I did- I failed to protect my family from pain!"

Sweets had to stop this. "But that isn't how it works, Booth!" His tone was pleading. "It was your father- your father was the one who failed to protect his family." _How can he think __**any **__of this was his fault? _

Booth rolled his eyes in irritation. "You know, Sweets? I think _you're _the one who doesn't get it." He stopped his pacing suddenly at the center of the room. "Why am I even here?" he asked in a forced laugh. "You can't help. You obviously don't have any idea what you're talking about." Booth turned on his heel and stalked toward the exit.

Before Sweets had thought of anything to say, he was out the door.

Sweets sat frozen in his leather armchair, somewhat stunned. _How did that go so wrong so fast?_ He had read about this sort of thing, of course, even experienced it a bit himself. Abuse victims sometimes tended to blame themselves for their aggressor's actions.

But no… that wasn't right. That couldn't be right. From his detailed recollection of his father and his maltreatment of his family, Booth obviously understood that his father acted out of drunken anger; that his father's actions had nothing to do with him.

So why was Booth so adamant in saying that he had "failed" his family?

Evidently, Sweets was missing a piece of the picture.

_So... he's hiding something from me._

* * *

Whew. Drama, drama, drama.

If you're thinking Booth is acting a little bit… I don't know, childish in insisting he failed his family, don't worry. There is really more to it than this little chapter is letting on.

Hence the final line.

Review if you feel like it. I'm getting to a point were I sort of want to block reviews, though. It's a lot of pressure! :S


	4. Burning Beds

Sorry for the long wait- finals are a whining, screaming bitch and so is editing. Plus I happen to be a very slow writer to begin with.

Expect more updates, and hopefully much sooner next time.

* * *

Sweets soon withdrew from the office himself. After all of the bonding that had taken place in this room, Booth's abrupt departure made the small office suddenly seem very... empty. Sweets sighed and began gathering his notes from his desk (and from the floor). He packed them into his black briefcase, each file fitting snugly next to its neighbor.

He left his mental notes out; open and ready to be examined.

Sweets slid his suit jacket over his back and picked up the briefcase. He flicked the light switch off before closing and locking the door, but his mind was still engrossed in his "files." _I know Booth. He knows I know him, so... Maybe he expects me to already know what he's hiding? He just doesn't want to say it out loud himself?_ He stared a moment at the locked door, eyebrows knitted._ Or maybe he _doesn't _think that I know him well enough to know he's avoiding something._

Sweets had fully intended to spend his short walk down to the parking structure going over the situation in his mind. But looking down the now long-vacant halls of the building, he suddenly found himself overcome by the loneliness they exuded. He scrambled for his phone.

Feeling slightly childish, he dialed the first number that came to mind.

"Dr. Brennan!" Sweets answered her somewhat distracted _"Hello?"_ "Yes, I-" he paused as her voice buzzed through the phone. "Right. Cancelled. I know. But-"

More buzzing.

"Yes, actually. Well... he's been in a meeting with me."

...

"Yeah, for the last..." -he checked his watch- "Two hours or so." Sweets pressed the 'down' arrow outside the elevator doors.

...

Sweets sighed. "I'm sorry about the inconvenience. I'm sure he has a good explanation." _Yes, a fake one. _The elevator doors opened with a small _ding! _

...

"Oh, really? Well, if you were already that close then you should've stopped by anyway." _That might have been good for both of them. Maybe she could reach what I can't in Booth. _"I just called to..." _Uhhhh... _Sweets struggled to explain. "...say 'hi?'"

There was an awkward pause.

The buzz returned, slower, though, as if Brennan were speaking to an irritated four-year-old.

...

"No, I understand. Murder does tend to take priority over social calls." He stepped from the elevator and descended the few stairs leading to the parking structure. "Well, thanks anyway." Sweets felt exceptionally foolish. Maybe if he had had a legitimate reason for calling... "Oh- and don't forget next week's appointment!" He winced at the obvious cover. "Er- same time on Tuesday?" Sweets wasn't too surprised when Brennan hung up before he had the chance to say goodbye.

Blushing slightly at the rejection, he climbed into his car and started the engine.

* * *

The dashes in the road blurred until they were nothing but white streaks in Booth's peripheral vision. Maybe he was going too fast. Maybe it was reckless to drive in his agitated state. He just couldn't seem to settle down enough to care.

He had been driving down this road in the same direction for hours, and now well beyond Maryland's northern border, he was vaguely beginning to wonder where he was heading. Though truth be told, he knew he wasn't _going _anywhere. As much as it pricked at his pride, he was aware of the fact that he was driving to get _away _from something.

_DAMN Sweets and all his questions! _Booth thought angrily. Like he needed a reminder of his past. Like he wanted to remember why he had these dreams. What had he been thinking, running to Sweets for help?

Not for the first time since he'd started driving, Booth smacked the steering wheel in frustration. He knew _exactly _what he'd been thinking: "I want to sleep" and almost unconsciously, "I need to talk to someone."

Isn't that exactly what he'd done? So why was he angry with Sweets?

Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was just... angry.

He grunted and smacked the wheel again.

_"You obviously have no idea what you're talking about!" _

_Stupid,_ he thought as his words to Sweets repeated in his mind.Of course Sweets knew what he was talking about. Of all his acquaintances, he probably understood best what was going on in Booth's head.

Maybe that was the problem.

He exhaled sharply.

Sweets had a knack with people and their emotions. Booth was sure the psychologist had his emotional reactions pretty well pegged by now; why and how he responded to things the way he did. That's probably why he had chosen to talk to Sweets over the rest of his friends in the first place.

But there were things that Booth just didn't want Sweets to know about him. And going into this meeting with him, he hadn't been sure yet what they were going to talk about. All he knew was that where the conversation had ended- it was MUCH too close to what he _didn't _want to talk about; the memories which he had worked all his life since to keep in the dark corner where they belonged.

He could call Sweets a friend, but he just wasn't ready to admit to him just how weak he was.

Booth's eyes narrowed at the road. He flipped on his headlights, driving away the blackness creeping in on the horizon.

If only there were lights to switch on in his mind when the darkness seeped in.

* * *

It was very late when Booth finally made it back to his apartment, late enough that he wondered whether he should even try to get to sleep at all. But habit and exhaustion got the better of him- he collapsed almost automatically onto the already tousled sheets once he had removed his shoes and jacket. _Just an hour or two, that's all I ask, _he pleaded with his subconscious. _Two measly little hours without nightmares._ He sighed and closed his eyes, quickly drifting off.

Not fifteen minutes later, he was tossing and turning.

* * *

_Lights flashed on the horizon. A helicopter? Maybe. He didn't have time to double check._

_He just had to get the hell away from... it._

Booth felt his eyes watering, but he couldn't tell if it was from the smoke swirling around the burning trees or the raw emotion that scathed and clawed at his insides.

Sparks flew at him from all sides. The dying trees creaked under their own weight as their bases burned out beneath them, but Seeley Booth's question burned even more; searing and urgent:

_How many people did I just kill? _

He jumped over the smoldering remains of a palm tree, his conscience screaming _MURDER! MURDER! _

_SHUT UP! _He reprimanded himself. _Don't think about that now. Just get the hell out of here. Away from..._

_Wait. Where _was_ he?_

It was strange-his skin still burned from the heat of fire, but he was no longer running through the flaming desert oasis. Instead, he was inside a small, almost claustrophobic hallway in an old house. He couldn't see much- all the lights were out.

_Where was that heat coming from?_

Booth approached a door to his left. He stopped a moment near the frame- it seemed like the heat was seeping from this room. Needing no further motivation, he grasped the knob and pushed the door inward slowly; curious but cautious.

Whispers flew about the room when he entered, buzzing around his head like flies. One of them sounded a lot like a woman giggling. Again there were no lights. Booth stumbled, hands outstretched, trying to reach...

_Reach what? _He asked himself. But there was no answer.

Then without warning, the door slammed shut behind him. After a moment of darkness in which Booth attempted to find the door again, the walls slowly began to glow a dull orange. They radiated an intense heat.

Not knowing what to make of this, Booth inched towards the center of the room. _Whatever he'd been looking for wasn't here anymore, _he realized suddenly.

The walls burst into flame.

The whispers floating overhead turned to screams; a young girl, a boy, a man. The woman's voice still giggled amidst their cries.

* * *

A particularly violent jump jerked him awake and, unprepared, Booth tumbled off his bed headfirst towards the hard wood floor.

"Aaaaa_SHIT_!"

There was a sickening _CRACK! _as his wrist caught beneath his considerable weight, bent slightly in the wrong direction.

Booth inhaled sharply and flipped onto his side. "Aaaaahhh..." He exhaled very slowly, pain shooting up his arm. He screwed his eyes shut and grimaced.

This really had to be one of the worst days he'd had for a long time.

Booth shook his head, still wincing on the floor. Through the fog of drowsiness and pain he could still hear screams ringing in his ears; could still taste smoke in the back of his throat.

He cracked his eyes open to glance at his wrist -okay, probably broken- then pulled himself to a sitting position. A gasp escaped him as his wrist sent a jolt of electricity through his brain.

God, he _needed _to get his act together.

Booth just sat there a moment, sprawled on the floor, feeling somewhat pathetic. _"Nightmare-induced injury,"_ he imagined explaining to a nurse, a wry smirk on his face. _"Fell out of bed when my dream woke me up." __God, just kill me now. _

He checked his injured arm again. He was almost certain that wrists weren't supposed to bend at that angle; he didn't even need Bones to tell him that. _So..._ _driving myself to the hospital is out. Broken wrists don't usually work too well with steering. _He felt himself blushing with embarrassment as he realized his only option was to call someone.

And for Booth, for many reasons, there was really only one someone.

* * *

A/N: Huh. I'm taking this story down roads I really hadn't considered before. Maybe I should edit the description...


End file.
